The fluorescent light overhead gave off a steady hum. It filled the cramped office of the state wildlife department, mixing with the rattle of an old desktop tower under the desk. On the scratched laminate surface lay a white sheet of paper stamped in dark blue: “Department of Wildlife Oversight.” The edges had curled slightly from the damp.
Officer Coleman flicked a cheap plastic lighter. The stale air filled with the sharp smell of lighter fluid and heavy cigarette smoke. He took a drag, blew a thick stream toward the cracked window, and tapped gray ash into a metal coffee can.
— Section 45, Sutter, — Coleman said in a flat voice. — Removal of a dangerous predator from its natural habitat. Fine for unlawful possession of a wild animal. Significant amount. Animal subject to confiscation and humane disposal. That’s procedure.
Mary sat on a hard wooden chair beside her husband. Her eyes stayed fixed on the worn gray linoleum near the metal desk leg, where a strip had peeled back. She adjusted the high collar of her dark wool sweater. She said nothing. Didn’t move more than she had to.
Victor stared at the flipped wall calendar behind the officer. His right hand stayed deep in the pocket of his winter coat. His fingers kept rubbing a smooth piece of rubber. It was a bottle nipple, chewed through on one side. The rubber had begun to yellow from constant boiling and formula. He squeezed it so hard the skin over his knuckles turned white.
— He’s only three weeks old, — Victor said evenly. — He weighs a little more than a house cat. He’s not a danger to anybody.
— The report’s already filed. The animal will be removed tomorrow morning. Sign here and here.
Victor didn’t move. He pulled his hand from his pocket and placed both palms on the edge of the desk. Then he stood up slowly without touching the pen. Mary rose right after him. They stepped into a long narrow hallway that smelled of bleach, old paint, and wet winter boots. Tomorrow morning, a state van with an iron crate would be pulling up to their place.
In Victor’s coat pocket was the chewed bottle nipple. Three weeks earlier it had been brand-new. Three weeks earlier their log cabin on the edge of the timber tract had not smelled like wet fur, veterinary medicine, and milk replacer.
Back then, the blizzard had started on a Tuesday. By Thursday evening, packed snow had buried the lower half of the first-floor windows. The old diesel generator in the shed coughed once and died before dark, dropping the whole house into a heavy half-light.
The rooms smelled faintly of scorched birch bark and hot metal. The cast-iron stove clicked softly, giving off a dry heat. Mary sat at the big wooden table peeling potatoes by the dim glow of a kerosene lamp. The knife tapped in a steady rhythm against a chipped enamel bowl.
Victor was feeding logs into the stove one by one. He shut the hot iron door and wiped his hands on his canvas work pants. Wind droned in the stone chimney like a low engine. The house, built from thick timbers, creaked under the pressure of the storm.
Then the rhythm of the night changed. Through the endless howl of the wind came a heavy thud. Then another. It didn’t sound like a branch falling off a pine or a slab of snow sliding off the roof.
The blows landed low on the front door. Then came a long, rough scraping sound. Something outside was clawing at the frozen oak boards, slow and deliberate.
Victor took the heavy rechargeable flashlight off the wall. From behind the wardrobe in the corner, he quietly pulled out his double-barrel shotgun. A dry metallic click followed as he loaded two buckshot shells.
Mary set the knife down on the table. …
